Matchmaker
by nanniships
Summary: Something is a little...off in Dr. Clarkson's life. Getting to the bottom of it could change things.


Matchmaker

"With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of everybody's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange everybody's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing — for she had done mischief."_  
―_**Jane Austen**, **Emma**

He flattered himself that he was not a stupid man. As a doctor and a war veteran, he'd seen a bit of life and no mistake. Maybe he wasn't a man of the world, so to speak...maybe he preferred to love simply, singly and deeply.

But he was not a stupid man.

Except when he was. As Dr. Richard Clarkson sat at his desk, anger rattling inside him like a storm on the moors, he wondered how he could have been so stupid, so bloody _blind_, that he couldn't see what was right in front of his face.

He had been manipulated. Led about by the nose. Taken advantage of. And _why_? Why would she play with him like this? For her amusement? To torment the man she obliquely rejected before any question could actually be asked? Even as these thoughts formed in his head, he dismissed them. Isobel Crawley wasn't cruel. She was just...too bloody helpful.

With fire in his eyes, he glared at the door, daring her to walk through it with that air of equanimity that he'd always admired in her professional bearing. It had only slowly returned in the last year since the tragic loss of her son and he'd taken quiet pleasure in it. But he had every intention of shattering it when he had the chance to speak with her privately. Regardless of her motives, this...this..._bloody matchmaking_ must stop.

He heard her voice in the corridor over the sound of his silent fuming, and snatched a piece of paper from a stack to glare unseeingly at it as he waited for her brisk knock. His knuckles grew white from the strain of not ripping the paper in two as the knock never came. Laying the bacteriology report of one Mr. Racken gently back on the pile, he sighed and wondered if he was frustrated or relieved that she did not stop in for a few words before meeting with the auxiliary staff.

To be honest, this was not a conversation he really wanted to have with her in his office. Here they maintained a respectful, professional relationship. Well, mostly respectful. Had Mrs. Crawley actually been Nurse Crawley under his supervision, it is unlikely that she would offer her opinion and direction as often as she did. It was unique, what they had, and for the most part, they made it work for the benefit of the hospital and the patients. And the professional relationship perhaps balanced out the personal, friendly relationship they had-one which could be, and had been considered in the past, somewhat inappropriate between the village doctor and the mother of the future Earl of Grantham.

Now only the grandmother of the future Earl of Grantham. And while that horrible circumstance in no way diminished her in his eyes, or even – to give them credit- in the eyes of the Crawley family, it made the social gap between them somewhat smaller.

Not that it mattered. Not that he cared. Were those her steps approaching his door?

He stood up and donned his white coat, which had been draped over the back of his chair. Had he actually been considering confronting Isobel Crawley in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves?

At the three, quick knocks on his door, he hurriedly sat back down and cleared his throat.

"Come," he barked, trying not to look up immediately as she opened the door.

"Have you a moment, Dr. Clarkson?"

He grunted unintelligibly in response and waved her in, eyes fixed on the paper he was about to sign. Isobel walked over to stand in front of his desk, hesitating at the chair she usually took.

"If you're too busy..."

"No...no..." he muttered, scrawling his signature. "I've a moment for you."

She thanked him and sat down, watching with growing curiosity as he shuffled papers and declined to catch her eye. When he finally looked up, it was with as blank an expression as he could muster. He could do nothing about the snapping of emotion in his eyes, however, and Isobel frowned.

"Is something wrong? I don't mean to interrupt if you-"

"It's fine. What can I do for you, Mrs. Crawley?"

"I had a moment to chat with Flora this morning," she began with a smile that faltered when his blank expression didn't change. "She's heading back to London today, but seemed to be very glad to have met you."

"That's kind of her," he replied shortly, clenching his hands into fists on his desk.

Isobel's expression grew wary as she took in his obvious tension. The silence in the office became oppressive.

"Well..." she finally began, rising abruptly from her chair, "I can see that you're quite busy and perhaps now isn't the best time-"

"I'm sure it's not," he interrupted, not meeting her eyes. "But perhaps...perhaps you might be free for luncheon tomorrow?"

"Luncheon? Ah...well..." Isobel stammered as she wondered what in the world possessed him to issue such an invitation. "I don't believe I have any other plans..."

"I'll meet you at the Arms then?" he suggested, glancing at her with eyes that weren't exactly friendly.

Isobel contemplated demanding to know what had gotten into him, but found herself too confused by his thinly veiled hostility to do so. Nodding her acquiescence and murmuring something polite, she proceeded to the door, glancing back once to see him glaring at the surface of his desk. Uneasy, she slipped out silently and stood just outside his door. A loud thump from inside made her jump and she hurried away.

Richard shook the hand he'd slammed into the desk until the sting abated and tried unsuccessfully to concentrate on his paperwork while he oscillated between dreading and anticipating his lunch date with Isobel Crawley.

* * *

The Grantham Arms was as dimly lit as it ever was and Richard could only focus on Isobel's expression over his pint glass with difficulty. He was pleased to see that she looked a bit uneasy as she sipped at her cocktail. Setting his glass down, he cleared his throat.

"So...d'ye know if Nurse Dalton found another position?"

"What? You mean Ruby Dalton?"

"Aye."

"I suspect she has," Isobel replied hesitantly. "She never actually mentioned why she left. Not to me, anyway."

"I thought all the nurses chatted with you," he replied with a forced chuckle. "Maybe its the other way round…?"

"Ah...well, we do have a friendly, professional relationship..."

"Oh, I'm sure. It sounds like a regular hen house in the tea room at times."

Isobel frowned a bit at his choice of words. She carefully placed her glass on the table and glanced about for the publican.

"I told him to hold off a wee bit," Richard said offhandedly. "We're in no rush, are we?"

"I suppose not," she replied hesitantly.

"At any rate, I believe we've got a few things to talk over."

"Have we?"

"Aye."

"Well then..."

"Ruby Dalton was a good nurse," he began, downing the last of his pint and signaling for another. Isobel tipped her head to one side and eyed him warily. "So I had no objection to her schedule co-incidentally matching with mine for several weeks."

"Well, I try to make sure the scheduling works for all concerned-"

"I'm sure," he interrupted. "And I didn't really think anything of it when I kept bumping into her in the village either. After all, we both live here."

He paused as his pint was delivered to the table and the server asked gruffly if the Lady would like another. Isobel declined with thanks, thinking a clear head might be an asset during this friendly lunch.

"Can I get ya anythin' to eat then?" the young man asked, with barely concealed impatience.

"I'll let ye know," Richard replied firmly. They both ignored him as he stalked off behind the bar and began wiping down its surface aggressively.

"But I did wonder why she was so keen to chat when we'd cross paths," he continued as if the interruption had never happened. "And then, she resigned and left entirely."

Isobel began to get an idea of why an obviously displeased Dr. Richard Clarkson had issued an invitation to a luncheon he didn't seem to want to have.

"It's entirely possible she found a better position," Richard continued. "But it seemed oddly abrupt, didn't it? One day, she was behind me in the post office queue, going on about how much she enjoyed live plays and that the theatre in York was putting on _Pygmalion_, of all things...the next week she was entirely gone, with hardly any notice. Are you ready to order?"

"Erm...what?" she asked, somewhat glassy eyed after Richard's monologue.

"Food," he replied, his mustache twitching slightly as he held back a smile at seeing his unflappable colleague stammering like a student called up on the carpet. He gestured to the server, who flipped his towel up onto the shoulder of his not-so immaculate shirt and wandered over to their table.

"I'll have the Ploughman's please," he ordered, "Go easy on the brown sauce. Mrs. Crawley?"

"The soup, please," she replied.

The server just grunted and strolled off.

"She seemed to have been disappointed," Richard said nonchalantly.

"Who...Nurse Dalton? Oh I expect she just didn't want to stay in a village hospital," Isobel replied with a shaky laugh. "We do have some who, well, long for bigger and better things."

"Bloody inconvenient for us," he replied, not bothering to check his language.

"Dr. Clarkson-"

"Thinking back, I can remember another nurse near the end of last year who left similarly...very little notice, had been a good worker, well skilled, a bit gabby though...do you remember who that was?"

"I'm not sure exactly," Isobel lied. She remembered Nurse Karen Donaldson very well. THAT had been a near disaster. The woman didn't seem to know the meaning of subtle.

"Nurse Donalds, or something of the like? Seemed like she was everywhere I was and nowhere she needed to be."

"Perhaps she was looking for a mentor?" Isobel suggested, cringing a bit when Richard rolled his eyes.

"She'd have had better luck shadowing you, if it were a mentor she was after. But she was a good nurse, and it was a shame to lose her so abruptly-"

Richard stopped talking as the server lumbered over with his plate in one hand and a bowl in the other. He made a bit of a show, ostentatiously placing the food in front of them, then tossed some silverware down on the table.

"Awright then," he muttered as he left. Richard and Isobel glanced at each other and then began rummaging through the utensils.

"He left you a spoon, at least," Richard commented.

"It's not a soup spoon, but as I'm not the Dowager and this isn't the Abbey, I can make do," she replied with a smile.

Richard glanced quickly down at his lunch plate, losing the battle not to smile at the way Isobel scrunched her nose up when mentioned the Dowager. He poked dubiously at his wedge of Stilton and tried to find that center of righteous anger at Isobel Crawley's bloody matchmaking efforts. Alas, the satisfaction he had been taking in tweaking her nose about her previous efforts was leaking away and he wished they were just enjoying lunch together discussing former colleagues.

Isobel scooped lackadaisically at her soup as she stole glances at the top of Richard's head, wishing she'd had a prior obligation when Richard had asked her to luncheon.

"Too much bloody brown sauce," Richard grunted under his breath in irritation. "Place has gone to hell in a hand-basket." He looked up abruptly at Isobel to catch her out staring at him with a perplexed expression. She looked quickly back down at her soup which suddenly seemed particularly unappetizing.

"How's the soup?" he asked.

"It's, well...it's not so..." Isobel stumbled about trying to come up with a polite way to say it was almost unrecognizable as the Barley Beef it claimed to be, then gave up. "It's rather...inedible."

Richard snorted in amusement at her honesty and beckoned the server over.

"Yeah?"

"These are well below the standard of this establishment," Richard informed him firmly, holding up a hand when the young man started to respond. "I don't care to hear an excuse. Just bring round the tab for the drinks and leave this...this pile o' jobby off."

"What do 'ye want me to do wit-"

"Throw it in a nook, for all of me," Richard snapped, rising from the table and going round to pull out Isobel's chair. She rose from the table automatically and nodded wordlessly when he excused himself to settle the tab at the bar and level a few more snappish comments at the sulking young lout before leaning closer to listen to his response. After a few, low words and a clap of the young man's shoulder, he joined her at the table and offered her his arm.

"What was that all about?" she asked, blinking as they emerged into the sun.

"I was giving him the rough side of my tongue for everything when he mentioned that the owner has been very ill and in hospital in York for three weeks. Likely cancer and likely terminal. I'm not sure how I forgot that."

Isobel stole a glance at him as he stared straight ahead. The barely restrained indignation that had seeped from him all through their aborted luncheon had entirely disappeared and he seemed distracted and disappointed.

"Extended family is just filling in until they know one way or another if he'll die or no," he muttered.

"You can't be expected to remember all the connections in the village-"

"That's exactly the sort of thing I should remember."

They walked on in silence until Isobel came to a decision and stopped, squeezing his arm.

"You can't go back to the hospital on an empty stomach, Doctor," she said firmly. "Come round to Crawley House for a sandwich first."

"I should be getting on-"

"And I rather think we've got more to speak of," she interrupted and was rewarded to see his eyes snap up to hers and gaze at her warily.

"Such as, Mrs. Crawley?"

"I'd very much like to continue our conversation," she answered pleasantly. "You were working your way on to my dear friend, Flora, I believe?"

Richard's legs came to an abrupt stop and he hoped he didn't look as wrong footed as he felt. Isobel stood looking at him with a patient sort of half smile on her lips.

"That's fair, I suppose," he finally muttered. "But I'm not in the mood to discuss it-" he put up his hand to stop her response, "-or anything else at the moment. I've a patient to follow-up on."

"That's fair, I suppose," she responded, glad to see a flicker of a smile make his mustache twitch. "Then dinner tomorrow, perhaps? Only...maybe _not_ at the Grantham Arms?"

"Where then?"

"Why not Crawley House? I'm sure I can offer better than a Ploughman's or mysterious soup."

He examined her face for a moment, pondering the lack of dining amenities in the immediate Downton area and his desire for their topic of conversation to remain relatively private. It wouldn't be the first time they'd dined at her home. As friends and colleagues...which he greatly hoped to remain once the air was cleared around her blasted interference in his life.

"Well then," he cleared his throat, "if you're not expected up at the Abbey..."

"They haven't entirely set my schedule for me," she replied a bit tartly, but her smile indicated that the tartness wasn't directed at him.

"Then I look forward to it."

He very much hoped so, anyway.

* * *

Isobel poured them each a cup of postprandial tea and sat back in her armchair with a sigh. Dinner had been well received and both had kept the conversation light in silent, but mutual agreement. They were not as easy together as they had been before the Fair and Matthew's death, but she had never supposed they would be. Grief had overtaken regret at her skittishness, and she was reluctant to dwell on what might have possibly been. But sometimes, especially during periods of solitude when she was overtaken by the pain of her loss, she also grieved the possibility she had rejected that would have insured she wasn't always so alone.

Well, the past was the past. The Doctor was a friend still and he deserved more than a lonely whisky and a medical journal of an evening. Unfortunately, her attempts to help seemed to have run aground and it was probably best to get things out in the open and move on.

She glanced over at his face, obscured somewhat by the steam from his teacup and opened her mouth to begin a conversational gambit. However, the solemn look he leveled at her made anything she was prepared to say die aborning.

"What am I to ye, Mrs. Crawley?" he asked, not taking his eyes from hers.

She very nearly dropped her cup into her lap at the abruptness and _intimacy_ of the question. His expression didn't change as she juggled her saucer awkwardly.

"Ah...well, you're a valued colleague," she began, her voice wavering anxiously. After clearing her throat and setting her cup and saucer aside, she continued: "And you're a long time friend...or at least I hope you are."

"Not a project?"

"A what?"

"A project, Mr. Crawley? Am I a project to you?"

"I don't know what you mean," she replied, too surprised to take offense but definitely edging that way.

"Did you enjoy your visit with your friend?"

"Flora? Oh yes...it was lovely to see someone from back in Manchester. She's retired and in London now, but she and I served together as nursing sisters before I married Reginald and had Matthew."

"Yes, you've told me that," he said. "In fact, you used to speak of her fairly often."

"Did I?" she asked, suddenly feeling nervous.

"Aye. I almost felt I knew her before I actually met her," he replied, taking another sip from his neglected tea and grimacing at the cool bitterness. Placing the cup to one side, he discretely wiped his mustache with his serviette and cocked an eye brow at Isobel. "It made things quite a bit less awkward when you asked me to join her for luncheon as a favor to you, as you had a...what did you call it? An 'unavoidable obligation,' was it? So she wouldn't have to dine alone."

"Well, that's good. Flora did say that she had a nice time."

"She seemed to know a great deal about me as well."

"I may have mentioned you a few times," she acknowledged, not meeting his eyes.

"I noticed that she's not much for small talk."

"No," Isobel said with a chuckle, "Flora is rather straightforward. She reminds me of you in that respect."

Richard stared at her for a moment, working out if that was a complement, before deciding that it was meant as such.

"Subtlety is not, perhaps, a doctor's strongest attribute," he admitted dryly. "Nor is it your friend's, I don't think."

Isobel just nodded, a sinking feeling beginning to spread through her middle as she contemplated what Flora might have said to prompt such a remark from the Doctor.

"Why, we weren't halfway through luncheon before she proclaimed that she'd have been happy to dine with a charming Scotsman, even without "Isobel's recommendation'."

The sinking feeling intensified. She desperately wanted to say something that might mitigate whatever other fool thing Flora might have said, but Richard continued on.

"I wondered about that, of course. Your recommendation. I didn't know what that meant exactly until we were finished and I was walking her back to Crawley House. She very kindly told me she had enjoyed my company and that Isobel didn't need to make a project out of me, but that she was returning to London the next day and it would likely be awhile before we met again." His voice had risen as he related Flora's words to him.

"Those weren't my words, Richard," she choked out, just above a whisper.

"Make a project out of me," he went on as if he hadn't heard her. "Now, I was still a bit befuddled. And although I don't consider myself to be a dense man, I know well that I'm not particularly good at reading the book that is Isobel Crawley. So it took me a fair while to ken."

Isobel shook her head at his self deprecation and tried to speak. But her tongue seemed to have fallen down her throat.

"I'd known you before for an interferin' woman who always thinks she knows best," he continued harshly, "but it never would have occurred to me that Isobel Crawley would stoop to _matchmaking_, of all things." He glared at her for another moment, then slumped back into his armchair, wishing he had a glass of whisky to hand.

Isobel's silence was unnerving to Richard. He'd expected justifications, denials, or half explanations in that glass cutting tone she could pull out with the best of the aristocrats when the situation warranted. And it would probably be what he deserved, after the tirade he'd just subjected her to. But she was just sat in her chair, apparently at a loss for words, twisting her serviette into knots.

"Why?" he asked softly, his words falling into the gulf between them. "Why would you do this, Isobel?"

"I never thought of you, or referred to you, as a project, Richard," she rasped out of her suddenly dry throat.

"But you were matchmaking?"

Isobel waved her hand aimlessly as she tried to come up with a way to explain herself that didn't involve _that_ word. Richard waited her out with a raised eyebrow until she huffed out a breath and nodded.

"Was it something to distract you? From your grieving? Because that...that I could forgive, I suppose. That wouldn't surprise me all that much."

"It's difficult to explain..." she began. He waited patiently for her to continue, but when she couldn't seem to find the words, his face grew stormy.

"I find myself hoping that's what it was...your grief. Otherwise, it looks a great deal like pity. And I'm not for you to pity, Mrs. Crawley," he bit out, crossing his right leg over his left knee, his eyes snapping with anger.

"Please...Richard...I'm trying to put it all into words-"

"How complicated can it be? You've been interfering in my life for over a year now and I didn't even notice, thick as I am," he growled in exasperation. "All I want to know is why? What pleasure did you get out of making a numpty of me?"

"I wanted you to be happy. I...I was trying to...I was-"

Isobel broke off as Richard threw up his hands in frustration and got up to stand behind his chair. Her eyes followed him as he began to pace in a tight circle, muttering under his breath and visibly trying to control his temper. She knew that he had a formidable one, but was so used to seeing a tightly controlled, staid, professional man that it always took her by surprise when she was allowed to see the strong emotions charging around inside him. Sometimes, she mused, a vigorous roll of the eyes was not sufficient for the situation.

"Might I trouble you for a drink?" he asked, coming to an abrupt stop next to the sideboard.

"Of course," she said, getting up with less grace than usual and advancing towards him. "I'm sorry I didn't offer sooner."

He waved her off and proceeded to pour a healthy measure of scotch into a tumbler. A very healthy measure. She returned to her seat uncertainly. Throwing his head back, he drained half the drink at once. Clutching the glass like a drowning man clutches a spar of wood, he returned to his own seat and sat forward expectantly.

"Right then, go on."

"Everything happened so quickly, Richard. The fair...George's birth...Matthew's death. I was overwhelmed...simply overtaken by it all. I didn't have the...the resources to even begin trying to sort it all out."

"Sort what out, Isobel? You were grieving, as you should've been and the devil take anyone who tried to make you think you should've done it differently."

"Thank you for that," she said with a sad smile. "There were many opinions about how to properly grieve thrown around, I assure you. Tom seemed to understand-"

"Aye. I imagine he did," he muttered with resigned bitterness.

"Mary was, of course, marshaling everything she had to survive the blackness that settled in her life when she lost Matthew. Our griefs were not the same, but I think we understood each other's. I'd been in her shoes..." Isobel's voice shook a bit and she looked over at the sideboard. "I probably should have gotten myself a drink while I was over there."

Wordlessly, Richard got up and poured two fingers of brandy. He placed it gently into her shaking hands and watched as she sipped. She grimaced at the burn.

"Easy there," he murmured as she gulped the rest and put the glass aside. The alcohol was already bringing some color to her cheeks and her expression could only be described as resolute.

"Why wouldn't it surprise you if I'd begun...what was your word...interfering in your life to distract from my grief?" she asked.

"Because that's who you are. You distract from yourself by helping others. Like when you were butting heads with Lady Grantham during the war over the convalescent soldier's home and up and went to bloody France with the Red Cross rather than stay and try to negotiate or work things out. 'I must be useful,' you said."

"That's not why I went to France," she replied indignantly. Richard just looked at her with a skeptical expression until she rolled her eyes and sighed. "But I think you're right about my inclination to channel myself into trying to help others."

"I know I'm right," he said firmly. "I've known you for years, Isobel Crawley, and that's the one thing I'm quite sure of about you."

"Just the one thing?" she asked, almost playfully.

"I used to be more sure about you," he replied, "until I found how very mistaken I could be. I tried not to make assumptions after that."

Isobel suddenly found the carpet to be endlessly fascinating. Although Richard's aborted proposal had hovered over their relationship for almost two years, neither of them had ever spoken of it-it wasn't the done thing. But clearly, it still loomed large for them both, dammed up behind the social conventions that seamlessly blocked real communication with veiled hints and endless natter over meaningless things.

Truthfully, if she'd had that moment back...if Thomas hadn't been badly injured...Mary hadn't gone into labor...and Matthew's life cruelly ripped away...if, if, if. Maybe she would have been able to better explain. Maybe.

"Of course, its too late now," she murmured to herself. Richard looked at her quizzically, and she shook her head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs.

"It really is hard to understand or put it into words why it seemed...important that I helped you find some, some happiness after everything, Richard-"

"What do you mean everything? And what's too late?"

"I'm trying to explain-"

"You're not explaining anything, Isobel," he interrupted. "You've been honest with me in the past. I think I'm owed an explanation."

"Perhaps I'm just an interfering old woman who couldn't help herself," she replied sharply.

"And perhaps I'm a blind fool with porridge for brains, but I doubt it," he shot back.

They glared at each other over the tea tray for a moment, then Isobel gave an exasperated snort.

"Fine then. As I was beginning to emerge a bit from the worst of my grief, it seemed as though I had a better understanding of unhappiness and emptiness. Maybe I had been more oblivious before because I had found such joy in Matthew's surviving the war and starting his own family and future. Everything seemed to be falling into place and I had difficulty reconciling the happiness with a sense of being...superfluous. I was trying to convince myself that this was just as it should be, that everything was as it should be for me at that time in my life. And then you...well, at the fair...what would you call it? It wasn't _quite_ a proposal."

"I call it mortally embarrassing myself," he muttered.

"It was the _timing _of it all, Richard. If we hadn't been interrupted, if Mary hadn't turned up in labor, if...well, you understand. There was simply no time or opportunity to try to examine how I really felt or explain any of it. I was plunged into the worst pain I'd ever experienced-worse than losing Reginald, worse than my fears for Matthew during the war. And when I had finally clawed up from it, with understanding from friends like you, and Mary, and George, and even Cousin Violet, who is actually a very wise woman under that aristocratic facade-"

"That's no facade," Richard interrupted, swigging back the last of his drink and relishing the low chuckle his response elicited in Isobel.

"At any rate, I could see a bit better who around me was only pretending to contentment, as I no longer was doing so myself. And you, Richard, were not happy and not content. And I felt, well, a bit responsible."

Richard stared at her as if she was an unexpected test result and he couldn't decide if it was good or bad news. Isobel stared calmly back, watching his face as he tried to find his way through the forest she had just planted around him. Standing abruptly, Richard moved back towards the decanters and poured himself yet another stiff whisky. Wordlessly, he gestured towards her empty glass? After a moment's hesitation, she nodded and he brought the brandy over to pour her another, a wee bit more generously this time.

"So," he began after seating himself back in his chair and taking a drink, "ye turned me down-"

"I panicked."

"-and then a year down the way, after a horrible time-"

"After some new perspective."

"-ye felt responsible for the fact that I wasna _happy-"_

_ "_More like you were discontent."

"-and decided to be a right _cailleach dhubh _and try to match me up with some unsuspecting woman?"

"None of them were actually unsuspecting, Richard, or I'd have never encouraged them," she said calmly, ignoring the Gaelic, which did not sound complimentary.

"Oh, well, _that's_ a bloody relief then. You only encouraged the keen ones to chase after me."

"I wasn't trying to trick anyone into some sort of Victorian compromise, Richard," she replied with humor in her voice. "What amazed me was how oblivious you were to the broadest of hints."

"I wasn't looking for any bloody hints!"

"And I apologize. I shouldn't have encouraged or interfered at all, not even in the hopes of you finding someone who could bring you happiness."

"Too right you shouldn't have!"

"I won't do it again."

Isobel's calm sat upon her face like a mask. Richard didn't even try to hide the fact that he was breathing a bit heavily after their last exchange. Both downed the remains of their drinks. As Isobel struggled to find a way to bring their contentious evening to a close, Richard took a deep breath and pushed his pique aside.

"Did it never occur to you that I might not have been content because someone I cared about was so unhappy? That maybe it wasn't anything you did that made me unhappy, just that you were unhappy?"

"No...no, I can't say that it did," Isobel replied.

"Of course not," he said, rolling his eyes. "It had to be something _you_ did."

"That's how it seemed, Richard," she replied a bit defensively. "Were you not unhappy with me?"

"Maybe a bit, at first," he acknowledged, wishing he had a wee bit more whisky to hand if they were going to be discussing this topic. "I was humiliated and had to pretend I'd had too much to drink. So I'd say, yeah...at first."

"At first?"

"How could I keep a grudge when you were going through so much?" he asked, affronted. "D'ye think I'm that sort of man who only cares about himself?"

"Of course not!"

"I'm no kind of man who stops caring just because I didn't get what I wanted."

"I know that," she assured him. "Everything was so mixed up..._I_ was so mixed up, even before Matthew died."

Richard stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, noting the droop in her shoulders and the fatigue in her face. It was past time he said goodnight and left, but he'd be damned if things just got left like this, never to be picked back up or resolved. He wasn't going back to circling each other gingerly, trying to avoid awkward conversational bombs.

"So why in all that mixed up did you come to the conclusion that I needed a companion and you were the one to find one for me?"

"Well," she began uncomfortably, "one day, when I'd come in to fill in for a sick nurse, I saw you watching a small group of us inventorying the linens and your face was like a storm blew across it. You're always so professional in the hospital and clinic. It was startling to see that much emotion on your face, out where anyone could see it. You left quickly when you caught my eye, and wheels just started to turn in my head."

"All of them going the wrong direction, I'd wager."

"It would seem so now. But at the time, I thought it was a need for companionship with someone you could really talk to, not just professionally but deeply and personally-someone you trusted and loved. And, well, I rather thought I'd forfeited the chance to be that person, and maybe made it all worse."

"Ye never stopped to think it might have been a friend I needed and not a lifetime companion?"

"I thought I'd probably forfeited that as well."

"It would seem that neither of us knows the other half as well as we ought," Richard said with a sigh.

"I'd say you're right," she replied with a little catch in voice. Isobel realized she was in danger of becoming a tad emotional and busied herself with organizing the glasses and china on the tea tray. She pasted a smile on her face and was about to begin the polite jockeying required to ask someone to politely leave. Before she could look over at him, Richard leaned forward and gently place a large hand over her busy ones.

"It's late," he acknowledged, "and we're both tired and perhaps getting a bit maudlin." At her nod, he smiled before his faced turned serious. "I'll have your word-no more matchmaking."

"Agreed," she answered, grimacing in embarrassment.

"And I think we've been making far too many assumptions about each other," he continued.

"You're quite right."

"Well then," he said, releasing her hands and standing up. She scrambled to rise from her chair as well and took a deep breath as he continued. "Perhaps its time we started over."

"Would you like that?"

"I would. Very much." He looked into her eyes and recognized the hope there. "You weren't wrong that I've felt very...isolated for the past two years or so. And I think you have as well?"

"For quite a bit longer, actually."

"Well let's see if we can help each other out, eh?"

"I'd like that, but Richard-?"

"Aye?"

"Let's go on as we've begun here, please. Able to be truly straightforward and honest with one another."

Richard pondered this for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

"It won't always be easy," she warned. "I'll need reminding sometimes that I'm not required to keep things to myself, that you _want_ to know."

"Oh aye. I'm not a man who bares his heart right and left. I'll have to remember that it'll be safe to do so."

He extended his right hand and she took it with hers, smiling when he gave it a gentle pump, striking an agreement. She fetched his coat and saw him to the door.

"Are ye busy in the afternoon Tuesday next?" he asked as he put his hat on.

"I'll have to check my calendar, but I don't think so."

"What would you say to dinner in Ripon?"

"I'd say yes to any place other than the Grantham Arms," she replied with a little laugh and pink stained cheeks.

"It's a date then," he said with amusement. "Good night."

"Good night," she said, waving him off into the dark.

Richard spent his walk home mentally planning where he ought to take her for the excellent food they desired and the quiet conversation they deserved. Isobel lay awake, in spite of being desperately tired and wrung out, planning what she should wear and wondering if she would ever be able to tell him how disappointing her incorrect realization that she couldn't be his partner and friend had been to her.

Neither considered that a bit of matchmaking had been successful after all.


End file.
